


Essential

by commanderpyre



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Break Up, Canon Compliant, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Getting Back Together, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Love/Hate, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pilot Cassian Andor, Rivalry, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23559268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commanderpyre/pseuds/commanderpyre
Summary: Draven and Merrick agonizingly try to figure out their relationship amidst the war. Mon Mothma is at her wits' end. Cassian gets adopted by the Rebellion.
Relationships: Antoc Merrick & Cassian Andor, Cassian Andor & Davits Draven, Davits Draven & Mon Mothma, Davits Draven/Antoc Merrick
Comments: 28
Kudos: 24





	1. Buried Truths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassandor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandor/gifts), [kanjichris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanjichris/gifts), [catexlyntully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catexlyntully/gifts).



> Boiling it down to the bare essentials ;) Glad to finally finish this up, hope everyone likes it. Dedicated to the Drerrick Community ofc. 
> 
> *Adding to the tags as I go along.

Dense jungles sprawled across the moon’s surface. Embedded amidst foliage stood a cluster of monolithic temples; spectacular, ancient structures that protruded high above the canopy, reaching a cloudless sky. This place had been lifeless, he remembered, left forgotten and decaying for decades. Now, it thrived. After it’d been refurbished to better suit their needs, the Great Temple quickly became the main base of Rebel operations, and Yavin IV, their new home.

Craning his neck back, Davits Draven admired the throne room. The transformation it’d undergone was immense. It was naturally, undoubtedly beautiful. But with war, Draven of all people knew the horror, ugliness, loneliness, that came with it would eventually overshadow any small solace in beauty the Galaxy offered them. There was no time to enjoy it. And no point. One day the vines that wove over these crumbling stone walls, the walls that embodied the spirit of the Rebellion, the walls that seemed to breathe, seemed to live, would sooner or later be another casualty of war. Forgotten in time yet again.

Draven had lived through the Clone Wars, seen what’d come immediately after. Perhaps these experiences were why he was a blunt, pessimistic man. Recently these traits in him had diminished, a noticeable amount. He’d learned to have a little more hope and faith. Well, he hadn’t ‘ _learned’_ as much as he’d been taught _;_ by one, Antoc Merrick. Right now this was something Draven hated to acknowledge.

A vast majority of individual Rebel cells had finally come together. They’d worked hard, made a difference. Every day their ranks continued to grow. The grandeur of this hall reflected how their very cause was larger than all of them, larger than life. They had preserved it, fought for it, Draven felt grounded, humbled even. In a way, it was a symbol of their strength - just as the medals Mon Mothma prepared were a symbol of her gratitude, and the receivers victory.

He regretted standing so far toward the front. Anyone else would’ve coveted such a position, but of course, Draven’s analytical mind only highlighted the negatives of it. If the impending award ceremony was as insufferable as he usually found them, there’d be no quick or subtle way to exit. No polite one either, but that wasn’t the important part to Draven.

A rowdy crowd festered behind him. When their chatter diminished to an anticipatory silence Draven rolled his eyes in relief. _Finally._

Mon Mothma took centre stage, commanding the attention of all present. A cordial smile graced her face as she spoke, calm as ever. Soon, she was gesturing for those at the back of the hall to join her; the sleeves of her elegant white dress swaying.

Draven’s nonchalant attitude faded as it dawned on him. He hadn’t a clue what this ceremony was actually for. This was rather odd for someone of his rank. Draven assumed, then, it couldn’t involve his Intelligence Division. Nor was it anything vital that Rebel High Command should know in advance. In mild curiosity, Draven peered around, seeing just _who_ was approaching.

He scowled in disbelief. Then sneered, begrudgingly.

A gust of warm air swirled through from the temple’s openings; the fine hairs lining Draven’s skin stood on end. His throat grew taut, dry.

Draven told himself this initial, vitriol, reaction was due to the sudden breeze. That was a lie. This was pathetic. He quickly reverted to a forced but neutral expression, and watched.

Antoc Merrick strode proudly down the aisle for the entire Rebellion to see; his head held high in fierce confidence.

The steel blue of Merrick’s eyes gleamed, and wrinkles formed in their corners as he flashed a bright smile. A snug fitting jacket showcased his slim build and squared his shoulders; it’s gorgeous navy and cream handsomely complimented his fair complexion. A number of pilots, predominantly of Merrick’s Blue Squadron, followed in his shadow.

The X-Wing fighters lined up before Mon Mothma and the entire room fixated on her words; shared her laughs as Merrick jested, shared her grateful smiles as she praised each one of them.

To some, Mon Mothma gifted a new rank, others a medal for their efforts. For the remaining few, she had nothing to give but kind words, and had simply invited them to stand with the rest of their Squadron members. It was a way for her to formally acknowledge, and show appreciation for, what Merrick had done.

Pilots joined the rebellion from all corners of the galaxy, differing wildly in skills and experience levels. Merrick had organized and trained them with astounding efficiency. Under his wing, quite literally, Merrick had morphed Blue Squadron into a cohesive unit and a socially tight-knit group; this enhanced their ability to improvise mid flight. He’d boosted success rates, morale, and had lowered damage losses. As Starfighter Commander, Merrick’s influence extended beyond just his own Squadron and X-Wing pilots. The entire Alliance Starfighter Corps was a true force to be reckoned with.

Minutes had passed and still Draven stood staring. Mon Mothma’s voice diminished to nothingness; a deafening silence enveloped him. From the soles of his shoes tree-like roots grew, cemented him to the floor, and forced upon him an unnatural stillness. Draven felt his teeth grind together and jaw clench tight, stiff. He was the only one present who did not, could not, bring himself to enjoy this.

Two months had passed since Draven and Merrick had split. Well, two or three, Draven couldn’t say precisely; this was their fourth “break” and at this point he’d long given up keeping meticulous track of them. That in itself was proof enough that Merrick’s more casual approach to life had rubbed off on him. Draven would be lying to himself again if he said he didn’t miss it. And even though they’d split up on multiple occasions, always drawn back together again, Draven knew this time was different. A more serious decision. No going back.

Despite everything that’d happened, though, Merrick was wearing _that_ shirt. The jacket mostly concealed it but it hadn’t gone unnoticed… Draven could not fathom Merrick’s intention.

It was smart but simple, a light shade of beige embellished with bold black accents. The style of the garment paid homage to that of Pendarr III, Draven’s home world. Draven had gifted it to Merrick for his last birthday. He’d procured it when he’d last been off base. A rare event. By the time Draven returned, Merrick had already left on the mission to Mantooine with the rest of Blue Squadron. The war separated them for a substantial amount of time. When they eventually reunited, Merrick was delighted with the gift and had thought it a sweet gesture. Draven recalled the warmth of his expression fondly. In hindsight the moment was bitter sweet. Both had let their guards down, and the seriousness of their relationship was glaring, indisputable. As a result it’d sparked a mutual discomfort and been the catalyst to a conversation both of them had been actively avoiding. That’s when they called things off, agreeing on the terms it had become more than a casual thing. Neither had wanted that, for reasons left unspoken… 

Draven preferred not to think of it anymore. As for the shirt, he’d assumed Merrick would have buried it in the back of a draw, given it away perhaps. But he hadn’t. He’d worn it. And today of all days, for an event as important as this.

Something larger nagged at him to.

Merrick’s achievements were common knowledge. Formerly he was the leader of his home planet’s defense fleet, thus was anointed squadron leader when he first arrived on Yavin IV. Since then he’d outright earned his place in the Rebellion, advanced to General, and Starfighter Commander; making him the head of their entire military air-force. The question bothering Draven was not how much higher the man could climb, but how much of the ladder even remained? What more could Mon Mothma possibly award him?

“I believe, and I believe strongly,” Mon Mothma began again, “That war is not a state of being, but meant to be a temporary chaos between periods of prolonged peace. We have strayed far from that peace, and the pendulum that is our Galaxy swings closer to war. When the inevitable, does, arise, I have full faith that our Starfighter pilots shall be the driving force behind many victories. Time and again, our Squadrons have proven themselves one of the Rebellion’s finest assets. I am sure you have all heard about our recent successes in the Atrivis Sector…”

Medal in hand, she stepped toward Merrick. As she did, she scanned the room, making sure Draven was watching. For a split second their eyes met. Mon Mothma’s were glossy, etched with an almost patronizing concern; a knowing look. It left Draven drowning in embarrassment. Red coloured his cheeks.

The lingering tenseness between he and Merrick had become blatant of late, and Mon Mothma had evidently picked up on it. Perhaps she had used this opportunity to force them into the same room, because, perhaps, she was sick of the pair of them. Draven couldn’t deduce Mon Mothma’s exact knowledge of the situation. But she made it very clear; she _knew._

Draven felt an urge to exit the ceremony, the whole temple even; he wanted desperately to retreat. To seek the solace and comfort of his office. His skin itched at the thought. Giving in to impulse was not a card he could afford to play, though. Not with Mon Mothma eyeing him. Even if it were, Draven was too stubborn for that. Instead he let out a huff, trying to exhale all the pent up emotions. It didn’t much help, and all Draven could do was stay put.

“General Merrick, your contributions as a leader have been invaluable to our cause. Your aviation skills; irreplaceable. You are, and continue to be, _essential._ ”

She paused to take a breath as Merrick donned his medal. It shimmered a regal gold and was much larger, much bolder, than the others.

“The Rebel Alliance grants you a seat on the council and invites you to represent all those who fly under your command.”

For a fraction of a second the room was still.

Draven froze. _This makes avoiding him impossible._ They’d be working together more often, forced to communicate. A dozen scenarios flickered through Draven’s mind. In one, Merrick won over the council with such natural ease he could not begin to relate. In another, he saw them heatedly opposing each other. And in the last, he saw himself enraged as he sometimes had been in their private affairs, except, this was in-front of the Council. Which now included Merrick. It chilled him to the bone; a nightmare realized.

Merrick beamed. Dimples formed on his cheeks. Too overwhelmed to speak, he simply took Mon Mothma’s hand in his and shook it fervently. Then, Merrick turned, raised his medal above his head for all too see, and as if to say _‘this is for you.’_

All the pilots, mechanics and cadets erupted with loud, exuberant applause. Even the droids Merrick was acquainted with bleeped happily. It echoed in the high ceiling. Everyone else took it as an invitation to talk and the room was ablaze with passionate discussion. The energy was ecstatic, like white lightening amidst the grey of a storm.

Draven spat out a Pendarr curse, his voice so low it was barely audible.

Usually Draven was a man of little emotion. If and when he openly displayed his feelings, it was subtle; unless he specifically intended otherwise. It was not a characteristic that came naturally to him, but one which was drilled into him from years working in intelligence, years of lies. Right now, Draven’s skills failed him. Decades of experience abandoned him. A bitter emptiness took its place. Draven could not for the life of him repress the way his jaw tightened, eyes widened, and short lashes fluttered as he blinked several times - making sure what he was witnessing was real.

He cursed again. This time, reeling off a string of them. And he couldn’t shake the thought that followed; how, when they were together, Merrick had always scolded him for being such a fowl mouth. Ironic. Thank the Force Merrick was too distracted to notice him, to witness him in this state.

Draven hadn’t felt the way he did now in so long he’d forgotten the words to describe or explain it. He racked his brain. Gnawing at his insides, it was taunting, and foreign. Jealousy, perhaps? Draven was sure it couldn’t be, yet as soon as the word appeared in his mind everything fell into place and his stomach dropped. His body physically ached and blood boiled with anger directed at himself more than anything else. What he felt was not jealousy of Merrick; Draven himself had recently been promoted, and such petty things never phased him anyway. But it _was_ jealousy, envy, of those who had the luxury of standing beside Merrick, basking in the man’s intoxicating charm, his contagious optimism. Those who got to share the experience, a moment Merrick would cherish. Those who were going to be invited to the celebrations afterward. Those who were in Antoc Merrick’s good books.

And there it was, plain and simple. Draven missed being close to Merrick, he missed it dearly.

Once again, Davits Draven felt the urge to retreat. And this time, he gave into it. Shoving his way through the crowd he bolted toward the stairwell. Whether or not Merrick and Mon Mothma had seen his discourteous exit, which they likely had, he was past caring.

**

Most who resided on this base full time, Merrick included, had found a sense of true stability among Yavin’s organized chaos; it felt comfortable, home like, hopeful. Even though war had plagued the Galaxy for so long, Merrick was still able to make the most of life. That was one of his most endearing qualities, and why so many people cheered for him in this moment. It filled him with immense, spine tingling joy, to witness. It wasn’t the first time he’d received a medal, but it was his first time doing so with such a passionate reception.

As the ceremony came to a close, and everyone began to exit, Merrick was crowded. Over the years he’d become quite popular, yet still there were only a few Merrick would call friends. He sought them out now, wishing to experience this moment with them, for if he did not share it, it may as well have never existed.

Bouncing down from the platform, Merrick greeted his oldest friend with a warm hug. Dreis had never said a bad word or thought a bad thought of Merrick. And vice versa. Both held the other in high regard, nothing but admiration and appreciation. Merrick and Dreis left Virujansi together, joined the Rebellion as Red Leader and Blue Leader together, their life paths where practically identical. They embraced, and laughed, and it was comfortable. As Merrick relaxed, he thought of Draven. He shouldn’t have, but he did. And now his thoughts would not shift focus.

When they’d exchanged pleasantries, Merrick desperately searched for Draven. He must be here. He had to be, surely?

A man of Draven’s stature was normally easy to find. But Merrick found no one he cared for. Puzzled, he gazed hopefully to Mon Mothma. Merrick’s foolish, fleeting hope was crushed with a single sorrowful glance. She shook her head subtly. He hadn’t cared enough to stay for the end. Or worse, he perhaps didn’t even show up at all. Overwhelming disappointment set in… Merrick physically ached with it. It’d been months, and he’d been fine. Yet it was as if he’d awoken to a world of nightmares. The reality of their split, their situation, hit Merrick full force. And he hated it. There was no spare moment for him to wallow in this revelation. No immediate privacy.

Merrick’s little Astromech, R3-M2, warbled excitedly as she raced over to him. Trailing behind her was Cassian Andor and a friend of his, his newest pilot recruits they’d picked up from the Atrivis Sector.

Cassian was wearing a new blue flight suit. These ceremonies did not warrant for uniforms, but this was the first time Cassian had worn the garment. The sight warmed Merrick’s heart dearly. All other thoughts were pushed aside, and he gave Cassian a genuine, welcoming, smile.

“Ah!” Merrick gushed, “You two look splendid.”

“Senator Organa helped us out.”

“Really?” Merrick raised a brow in surprise. That man could run circles around the rest of High Command, it’s a wonder he had time for anything else at all, let alone helping out stray recruits.

“Well, he was in a rush, just put us in the right direction. Ha.” Cassian smiled lightly, “Since it was for an important occasion.” He ruffled with his hair, seemed on edge. The boy was perhaps hiding something, though Merrick didn’t pry. He was content enough to see Cassian settling in as fast as he was.

Cassian was so young, and already had proved himself a great pilot and leader on his home-world, Fest. Merrick secretly hoped that one day, if need be, Cassian would be the one to take over his position. Perhaps that was a little morbid, but Merrick knew it was rare to find someone so skilled in many aspects, and still with so much potential. Merrick hadn’t voiced this yet, didn’t want to scare Cassian off, or throw him in at the deep end so to speak. And he certainly hadn’t told High Command of his observations. Merrick made the executive decision to lie a little on the report, made sure to under-hype Cassian’s talents. If Draven taught him anything it was how to go about getting your own way, how to be soullessly ruthless. Merrick felt guilty, maybe it was a step too far, but he’d done it out of pure concern. He was doing Cassian a favour; he was more than capable, but the last thing the boy needed was the pressure of all eyes on him. Not straight away, anyway. Especially after everything he’d been through. Merrick wasn’t aware of all the details, but he knew enough that he’d felt inclined to help. To watch out for Cassian. This was for the best, in Merrick’s opinion…

It was the new hope Cassian brought, the company of his Astromech, the comfort of old friends. It was receiving a medal for simply doing his job. This stream of positives fueled Merrick. Even when he felt life was a crumbling ruin, and the embers of love were nothing but blackened ash. The small things found in mundanity kept him sane, kept his smile from fading.

**


	2. Guardian Generals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arguments and fatherly love? Idk. It's the Cassian-centric chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @gatorbol on twitter for looking over this for me, couldn't have done it without you!

The day had barely broken and already Yavin IV was a hive of quiet activity. A calming quiet. Even the most delicate of sounds were identifiable, and Cassian listened. The corrugated soles of his ankle boots were gritty against rough stone. Dewy greenery dripped from high ceilings, and tinkering tools clanged against machinery. It echoed down the temple’s passageways, and reminded Cassian of Fest; the crunching of snow, wild, towering forests, and the industrial streets of abandoned droid factories. They were mostly good sounds associated with good memories, and as they grew distant, as Cassian grew further from the hangar bay and higher up the drafty staircase, his mind shifted to thoughts of his sister. She would’ve liked it here.

Merrick’s astromech, R3-M2, trundled along at Cassian’s side, and as they reached the upper levels of the Great Temple, Cassian cocked a brow in her direction, “You gonna show me the rest of the way then?”

She rolled ahead, rather unenthusiastically - and Cassian couldn’t blame her. She’d been doing this for days on end.

Datapad at the ready, R3-M2 lead Cassian through a low stone archway.

Dark lashes fluttering, Cassian blinked. Adjusted to the low light. The vastness of the open office space. Drowned in the damp and gloom that was the Temple’s interior rooms. It was a serious, yet bustling environment. …So this was where all his ‘Fulcrum’ transmissions had ended up. This was Base One’s Rebel Intelligence.

Cassian was in the midst of scoping out the place, deducing what he could from each detail, and imagining himself working here when he was annoyingly interrupted. By the head of Intelligence no less.

General Draven snatched the datapad from R3-M2, a look of smugness shielding his disdain beneath. “Clever, isn't it.” It wasn’t a question, more of a proud statement as he observed the droid that was clearly sick of running such tedious errands.

Cassian almost laughed, recalling what Merrick had said earlier. _‘Ingenious, if I must say.’_ Or something like that. There’d been a gleeful smile on his face; though the sorrow in his eyes had spoke different words. The way the two of them seemed to mirror each other even when they were apart was baffling.

Ten rotations had passed since Merrick’s promotion at the ceremony, since he and Draven had been avoiding each other to more aggressive and agonizingly ridiculous lengths. Already, Draven had invented countless methods for their respective divisions to communicate that didn’t involve coms. Because, apparently, the sound of the other’s voice was _that_ unbearable, they’d both developed a hatred verging on phobia of it… Once again, poor R3-M2 was caught in the middle of their feud; tasked with sending messages two and from Draven’s Rebel Intelligence and Merrick’s squadrons. With Merrick as part of High Command, co-operation between the two was more vital and frequent than ever. It was banal work, but unfortunately for the droid, Draven and Merrick’s stubborn pride overshadowed any underlying guilt or sympathy.

This dynamic didn’t phase Cassian much yet. He was new, thus naive enough to believe it would pass. With not much else to do this morning, Cassian had assisted the droid of his own free will. More so to investigate, satisfy his own curiosity.

“You look familiar? Why is that?”

Cassian folded his arms across his chest. Shrugged.

That response wasn’t sufficient for Draven, and he grew a little agitated. Placed his hands on his hips. “Come on, I haven’t got all day?!”

Cassian shrugged again. “Neither have I.” He gestured for the droid to follow him out the door. Then, he was gone.

If Draven wasn’t so bewildered, he might have sworn.

Cassian knew exactly why Draven recognised him, of course. When he’d first become Fest’s ‘Fulcrum,’ Ahsoka Tano had sent a hologram of Cassian back here - for the records. That was years ago, and Cassian had since grown facial hair. Sure, he could’ve saved Draven the brain wracking irritation. Instead, Cassian chose the amusing option. Now to let Draven figure it out on his own. Besides, what was a simple mystery for the head of Rebel Intelligence? 

**

It wasn’t until their third trip that Draven finally cracked it.

“Cassian Jeron Andor. Fest, Atrivis Sector. Born-”

“Yeah, I know when I was born. Congratulations.”

Draven didn’t often smile so genuinely, but right now, his lips were curling into a wry grin. Cassian smiled too. It was a rare occasion that Draven could put a face to the name of one of his agents; in the flesh, at least. And he felt ecstatic upon this revelation.

“ _The original Fulcrum._ Tano.” Draven began. “You were her first recruit. Well, second. But first with a main base, actual, effective forces... Did you know?”

Cassian shook his head, lips pursed and brows furrowed in intrigue. "Not until Bail Organa hinted as much."

“You were essential, she said. The key to that sector.”

She was right, Cassian thought.

“Tano is always right.” Draven said.

**

On his way out, Cassian had given a wave to Corporal Rodma Maddel, nothing more than a casual greeting. She was of course recruited by Cassian, so that wasn’t the odd part. After dwelling on this for approximately ten minutes, Draven came to the logical conclusion; they’d reunited prior to that interaction, meaning Maddel had known of Cassian’s presence already. She’d probably known since his arrival. And she’d never told him. Never bothered to inform the head of Rebel Intelligence that of his Agents, _finest_ he might add, was right under his nose on Yavin IV. Draven frowned. As the initial elation wore off, aggravation set in. Draven felt personally offended by the entire situation… And what’s worse, he’d spent the majority of the morning so utterly fixated on _who_ Cassian was that he hadn’t stopped to connect the larger pieces of the puzzle. Not until this very moment. _Why in the Galaxy was Cassian Andor stationed with Antoc Merrick?_

The mission in the Atrivis Sector just a weeks past had ended in complete chaos. Bail Organa's knowledge of the U-Wing's there that could bolster the Rebellion's ship numbers was the main catalyst in Draven giving the green light on the whole thing. Cassian's forces had been the ones to actually carry it out. Eventually they'd needed Red Squadrons assistance to get out of there with all the U-Wings in one piece. Draven knew Red Leader was one of Merrick's oldest friends which was why he'd taken some of his own Squadron to assist - it was likely Merrick first met Cassian then. With so many arriving or returning to Base One simultaneously, it was overwhelmingly hectic. So much to be processed, logged. Draven had been too preoccupied with his own work to check up on Merrick's reports...

As a General, the same as Merrick, and as Chief of Intelligence, Draven had the authority to look through others reports. Most were for High Command or forwarded to him as it was. So what did it matter if recently, he'd begun reading Merrick's personal reports in his private time? That was Draven's justification, anyway. There was a certain formality to them, of course, but Merrick's word choice matched the patterns and way in which he spoke; as Draven read them he heard Merrick's voice echo in his mind. And he'd linger upon it... Wishing to hear it in the real world again. It was perhaps pathetic, but now, Draven had the excuse to do this on an official level. He set to work instantly.

**

T-65 X-Wings crowded the space. Pilots worked fervently on their vehicles; there was a fondness to their expressions, and affection in their meticulousness. Stray astromechs and inventory droids assisted in unloading and sorting crates of cargo. He found the sight invigorating.

This productive yet jovial atmosphere was still rather new to Cassian. But being a part of Blue Squadron had given him new focus, a sense of security. For the first time since he’d lost his sister, Cassian felt at ease. On Fest, he’d spent every waking hour on high alert. Every night had been threatened by sub-zero temperatures as they’d attempted to gain advantage and seek shelter in the caves of mountain passes. Here, he was still very much at the heart of the fight, although in a different way. That’d taken some getting used to. Finally, he could afford to breathe, to rest.

This lull of sorts would not last, Cassian knew. But for now, he enjoyed it.

Bail Organa’s words from the night of the ceremony still weighed heavy on Cassian’s mind. After speaking with Maddel in his free time, and now with Draven, change was inevitable. Draven’s initial bewilderment had confirmed Cassian’s suspicions about Merrick. It was the last piece of the equation that he’d been trying to solve… Whatever happened next, whether it was sooner or later, High Command needed more from Cassian than his basic piloting skills. And Cassian was not one to selfishly wish for a different fate; nor did he want one.

“Andor! You’re early? Speech doesn’t start for another hour yet.”

Nera stood by the nose of Merrick’s X-Wing, the sleeves of her jumpsuit rolled up to her elbows. She wiped her hands on a tattered rag that was blackened by some oily substance, then waved it in Cassian’s direction. The sight was odd to say the least; usually Merrick did all his own maintenance, wouldn’t let anyone else touch _Blue One_. But Cassian didn’t question that part.

“ _What_ speech?”

She laughed. “Go figure. General’s waitin’ for you.”

Being the head of maintenance, Nera was familiar with everyone who set foot in the hangar on a regular basis; as well as their ships, preferred equipment, and the general day to day happenings.

“He’s over there.”

“Thanks.” Cassian waved.

He and Nera were only a little more than acquaintances, but Cassian wished they were friends. Even though Nera commanded a staff of mechanics, she wasn’t the type to avoid getting her own hands dirty, in-fact she enjoyed it, and Cassian admired that. She was good company too. He wished he had more time to catch up with those who’d come with him from Fest, and with his friend Melshi. But Cassian knew such things were luxuries, not meant for the times of war.

R3-M2 bleeped solemnly as she spotted Starfighter Command’s office; an R-series astromech, named ‘Arforb,’ was serving as Merrick’s personal assistant, and she felt replaced.

“It just means he trusts us with the more important things.” Cassian grinned, “And you forget, Arforb is scared of flying.”

That was enough to prize a whir of mechanical laughter out of her.

“They will fix it, I am sure,” Cassian shrugged, referring to the state of Draven and Merrick’s deteriorating relationship, “But what can we do about it?”

Cassian and R3-M2 hovered in the open doorway of Merrick’s office unnoticed for a few moments.

Head in his hands, slumped over a flimsi notebook, Merrick was reciting words under his breath. Screwed up balls of flimsi littered the rest of his desk, along with some of Merrick’s personal items, and a tea that’d gone cold.

As if the Force had known of Cassian’s earlier thoughts, as if it guided his view, he noticed something. On a ledge fashioned from the temple’s stone, was a vest. A pathfinders vest, like Melshi’s. Blue, with pockets, and a square of yellow on one shoulder.

For a moment Cassian forgot he wasn’t alone, and he reached for it. Wanted to see who’s it was, how it had got here.

Arforb announced their arrival; warbled, loud and abrupt. It startled Merrick, and he jumped to his feet. Accidentally knocked his knees against the desk.

“Good morning, Andor!” Merrick exclaimed, brow raised in surprise.

“Sorry to startle you-”

“Apologies for the slight mess-”

Both paused.

The vest creaked in Cassian’s tightening grip; it’s waterproof fabric sticky against his palms.

Merrick glanced at the garment, “Found that already have you?”

When Cassian tried to hand it back, Merrick didn’t move to receive it. Instead he shook his head, gave a tired laugh. “No, no. A _‘Ruescott Melshi’_ dropped by. Left it here for you... Friend of yours, I assume?”

Cassian’s eyes lit up. He nodded.

Tracing a finger along the collar, he thought of Melshi, and by default; Fest. Lingered in those memories until they unraveled in his mind, and he tumbled, falling in ones from recent days. They’d often spend their lunch hours together, eat outdoors under Yavin IV’s strong midday sun. They’d listen to the bush tookas that scampered about in lush undergrowth, and the colourful fynocks that sang up in the canopy. If the jungle’s ground was sodden with fresh rainfall, they’d stay indoors. Join the others in the mess hall, laugh and share jokes… The mood wasn’t always so laid back or up beat, but Cassian valued and remembered vividly the times they were; for the latter months of his time on Fest, such simple joy had been frighteningly scarce.

This trail of thoughts was like iced water over warm skin and he was abruptly reminded why he was here. That he needed to confront Merrick about what he’d learned… Though he was Still considering how exactly to go about it.

As Cassian silently slipped into the vest and adjusted his shirt beneath, R3-M2 rolled out from behind his legs.

Merrick immediately realized where Cassian had just come from and his expression shifted to one of panic, concern. “My boy, I don’t expect you to run my errands, and so early-”

“I know I don’t have to.”

There was a particular glint in Cassian’s eyes that reminded Merrick instantly of Draven; an expression he wore when he knew something. It was jarring, and it threw Merrick off entirely… Before continuing their conversation, he shooed the droids from his office.

“Sorry love, I hate to ask again. But run this up to Dav- Rebel Intelligence would you?” He handed R3-M2 an old, scratched datapad, then sent Arforb rattling over to Nera with a rusty toolbox.

Without hesitation, Merrick made a pot of Virujansi tea for two and explained what he’d naively presumed was the issue. “They’re keeping me busy, old chap! Put me in charge of ground mission planning - as and when it involves our pilots. It’s a recent development, apparently. But what’s another duty to add to the day’s tally?” Merrick sighed through a weary smile, “…Then there’s the speech.” He gestured to flimsi on his desk, covered in scribbled notes and crossings out; the ink an electric blue. Cassian could just make out the Aurebesh, something about U-Wings?! Now, he was intrigued. “My boy, there’s barely time for a tea, let alone keeping up with my own ship maintenance.”

This at least explained why Nera was working on Merrick’s ship, Cassian thought.

Merrick offered Cassian a cup filled to the brim; the beverage perfectly coloured. Accepting, Cassian let the warm seep through his fingertips. He stared at it. Examined the ornately drawn maps of mid-rim worlds that decorated it.

A sea of items flooded Merrick’s desk, but prepared neatly atop the mess was a datapad and two flimsi handbooks. _‘X-Wing Owner’s Workshop Manual.’_ Cassian eyed them as he placed his cup down on the surface.

“Ah-” Merrick sipped his tea, then picked them up cautiously, “I’ve been meaning to give you these, too.”

Reluctantly, Cassian took them; tucked them away flat against his chest. Didn’t even bother looking at the other book. Which he could see upset Merrick. He was perhaps a little rough with the items, too. The new vest was a little big for Cassian’s short, small stature, but he realised he was glad for the extra pocket space.

Troubled by Cassian’s mood, Merrick pried for him to open up. “Is there something else on your mind, my boy? …Can I help?”

An uncomfortable silence fell upon them. Cassian let it. Let the tenseness seep through the space. It was just the two of them now. At the back of Cassian’s mind, doubt began to fester. But he halted it in it’s tracks. …Cassian did not waver.

“You lied.”

Merrick said nothing.

“You lied on the reports to High Command about me. Didn’t you?” Cassian’s expression was one of curiosity. There was no malice to his tone. Still, Merrick’s mouth fell slightly agape and he himself dumbfounded by both the glaring truth and the bluntness to the statement.

He left no time for Merrick to dwell on the question, “Why?”

“How?-”

Cassian scoffed through a triumphant smile, “I can work things out for myself. Put two and two together.”

Merrick sighed, posture once again loosening as he leaned against his desk, gestured for Cassian to finally take a seat. His gaze was contemplative as he twirled his mustache between his fingers. “You’re welcome to read my reports, if you’d like to of course. I was worried. Concerned. High Command might’ve burden you with too much too soon... No matter the division, we’re fighting the same fight. And if we don’t all look out for each other here then who will, _hm?_ ” Merrick paused, his expression softened. “We haven’t been acquainted long, but I want whatever is best for you, Andor.”

“You want me to pilot your U-Wings.” Cassian tested, wanting to gauge Merrick’s reaction.

“No, no. If you wish to be re-assigned elsewhere, if you believe it best, I’m not here to stop you.” Cassian’s curious expression morphed into understanding as he listened. “Apologies. You’re more than capable, I know… I just _worry_.”

The older man meant well, Cassian could see as much in his eyes, hear the care in his voice. And so for the moment, Cassian’s calm and collected demeanour remained. “I’ve been a part of this fight since I was a child. …I’m frustrated by people telling me over and over, they know I’m capable. Then their actions contradicting that.”

“Yes but-” Merrick stuttered as he recognized the passion and drive in Cassian; it much resembled a younger version of himself in that regard. And it was agonizing. “My dear boy, this is not only Fest-” Flailing with his hands Merrick tried to convey the scale of it all, “This is the _Galaxy_!”

Cassian’s eyes bolted wide open. As if he were invigorated by the sentiment. “And I can do _MORE_!” His tone was sharp. His voice, gritty; same as the soles of his shoes had been upon the stone passageways. It was brimming with not anger, but fierceness; undying lust to finish this conflict against the Empire for good - something monolithic, beyond comprehension for most. But Cassian could see that future so vividly. He believed, hoped. And in the reflection of his dark eyes, Merrick saw it too. It’s why they fought.

“Maybe it’s why Senator Organa is the only one here who seems to get it. Leia is around my age, you know.”

Sorrow pooled in Merricks steely eyes, “So was your sister when she was killed, was she not?”

Cassian tried to compose himself. Folding his arms across his chest, he exhaled more shakily than he’d have liked. The thought of not just anyone, but General Antoc Merrick doubting him, underestimating him. Cassian had dared to grow close to Merrick in a way he would’ve perhaps done with his parents if they were still here… And more than anything, it saddened him. There was no fancier word that could convey the bluntness of the emotion. Cassian hated it. So he told Merrick the one thing that could possibly alter his perception.

“On Fest, I was a ‘Fulcrum.’”

The air in the room had somehow become heavier that it was at the mention of his lost sister. Oh. Merrick had been completely unaware. Guilt coiled in his lungs, stole his breath. He wished he’d have known. But how could he ever have? The only reason Merrick even understood the real significance of the term was because of Draven. ‘Fulcrum’ changed everything. Merrick was so blinded by an almost fatherly worry, scared Cassian would’ve been cast in at the deep end with no aid, that he hadn’t even realised Cassian had been there all along. Already drenched in the water of a thousand oceans. This boy had walked upon the choppy waves of Kamino and not only had lived, but was craving to dive back in again, headfirst. Merrick realised. This was it. Cassian’s stint as a Blue Squadron pilot was coming to a close before it had even taken flight.

“I see.” Merrick’s voice was the softest Cassian had ever heard it. “You’re wise, Andor. Deceivingly, splendidly, so. With all you've done, Intel would be silly to refuse you.”

There was a short pause. Cassian’s gaze tracked Merrick’s every twitch, as if he was studying him.

“Actually.” Cassian began. “I like it. Here. With Blue Squadron… It’s just, not permanent.”

Merrick smiled then. “Don’t tell him you said that.”

“...So you’re okay with it?”

“Why ever wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, Draven-” Cassian said meekly.

“Ah. Draven.” Merrick drawled. “My boy, you will fit right in, I have no doubt in all the stars in all the galaxies.”

Finally, Cassian returned the smile. He hadn’t realised how much he’d needed to hear those words. And Merrick hadn’t realised how much he’d needed to say them, needed Cassian to open up to him. The timing of this whole ordeal had been rather inconvenient. It’d made Merrick late for his own speech, which unknown to Cassian, was directed at him and his Festian recruits. ...But in Merrick's eyes, the time had not been wasted. It’d been much needed. For the both of them.

**


	3. Strained Teamwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draven wants full time custody of Cassian. Merrick gives a speech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title says it all... Based on that (1) picture of them arguing in the Rogue One visual guide. Oh, and Merrick's speech from the actual X-Wing manual book released last year.

“Right! Who’s new?” Draven asked, tone brimming with fake enthusiasm. “Anyone?”

The room fell silent; only the low hum of the data boards and its blue-green light filled the room. Newer recruits were either too shy to speak up, or outright intimidated by Draven. Afraid of what awaited them if they replied. Others that had been around longer already learned their lesson; this was a regular occurrence to them.

“Anyone?” Draven growled this time. “These are _my_ personal files. Isn’t that intriguing enough? Come on, I have other work to attend to.”

Everyone stared at the overflowing crate in Draven’s arms.

Draven was certain he heard a snicker. He couldn’t be bothered to retaliate. Nor did he want to waste more time than this was already taking.

“I’ll do it.” Someone finally mumbled. A blonde haired woman, delicate freckles littering her skin. Of course it would be Maddel.

“Fantastic.”

Maddel gave an exhausted sigh, “Yeah. You’re welcome.”

With a thud Draven dumped the crate in-front of her, flimsi documents spilling out over the floor.

“What is it this time, sir?” Private Weems asked, sitting at the com desk.

“...Are you High Command?”

“No, sir.”

“No.” Draven repeated monotonously. “None of your business is it then, Private?”

Weems gulped, genuine curiosity fading from his face. “No, sir.”

Draven was no idiot, he knew most on this sweltering jungle moon did not favour him; neither as a boss, or by extension, a friend. If he wanted to do his job to the best of his abilities, then this was the way it had to be. Everyone was expendable, so better to be feared than liked. Draven had accepted this years ago. He was long passed tip-toeing around people with false niceties. Long past caring what anyone truly thought of him. Or so he’d convinced himself.

**

**ATRIVIS RESISTANCE GROUP**

**TO: GENERAL DRAVEN**

**FROM: AHSOKA TANO**

General,

The Fest cell might be small in numbers, but they are big on results. They’re the real deal. Listed are some of the ops they’ve executed thus far:

  * Infiltrating the Imperial base in the capital
  * Disrupting Imperial shipping lines in and out of the Atrivis Sector
  * Acquiring Imperial weaponry



As previously reported, the cell includes multiple skilled fighters, pathfinders, and a handful of decent pilots. My contacts and our _‘Fulcrum,’_ are their leaders - two siblings named Andor (SEE ATTACHED). They could do a lot more damage with more hardware and basic supplies. I insist, we must continue to support their movement. 

**

Brows knitted together in an investigative expression, Draven let his mind stew. Held his jaw in his palm and narrowed his eyes. He’d dug up every single report ever made on the Atrivis Resistance Group, Fest, and any other rebel activity in or relating to the Sector. Rediscovered Tano’s first report. And, the hologram attached. It was undoubtedly Cassian, although the image was dated and he was visibly younger.

The Rebellion had aided Fest during the back end of their campaign against the Empire. They’d mainly sent supplies. That was all they could offer. The Massassi forces simply hadn’t been large enough to send physical help, could not spare the already scares numbers. They’d not even recruited Admiral Raddus or Jun Sato and his ever growing Phoenix Cell yet... All deliveries had been orchestrated on Draven’s end. One of the supply runs, Draven recalled, involved sending old flight suits for the Festians to alter and use as warm clothing whilst on the slopes of some snowy mountain side. They’d had to make an initial retreat due to freezing temperatures before the final push. In one of the later holograms, Cassian wore a blue parka. The same blue parka he’d carried slung under his arm this morning. It was made of those very flight suits, among other materials; the sleeves and texture were dead giveaways. Even though it was Draven who’d sent them to Fest, and Cassian was _his_ Fulcrum agent, that parka was an unwanted reminder of Merrick.

Merrick’s report on Cassian was the most recent. It didn’t quite add up when compared with everything previous. Obviously, Merrick was unaware of Cassian’s Fulcrum status - because to someone who knew, to Draven, the lies were blatant. The wording was manipulative, and purposefully obstructive.

Fury gnawed at the pit of his stomach. Like undying hunger it tortured his insides. This was just as Draven suspected, but seeing it with his own eyes was something he hadn’t, couldn’t have prepared for.

Merrick keeping Cassian from the Intelligence Division for selfish reasons was extremely out of character; yet it was the conclusion Draven had abruptly settled on and grew enraged at. Too blinded by his own logic, and too full of himself, Draven could not see otherwise.

Draven wanted Cassian back because he was an asset. One who’s unmatched talents and skills were being drastically underutilized.

If Merrick were here, he’d have actively discouraged Draven’s cold, droid-like view. Frowned upon it. Would give him some bantha shit lecture about responsibility as a General, and lives _not_ being stats... In this moment - these thoughts drove Draven to the boarder of insanity. He laughed. It was ironic, hypocritical. Why should Draven refrain when Merrick had started this? When _he’d_ been the irresponsible one?

It’d only been a measly ten rotations and already something was threatening to ruin Draven’s streak - he’d hoped to avoid communicating with Merrick indefinitely. Upon reflection, that was idiotic. They’d speak to each other again because inevitably they’d be forced to, but Draven refused to be the one to break... That would be losing. But he didn’t want to give up on Cassian, either. That would be losing too. Draven didn’t lose.

**

There was an air of urgency about him as he strode toward the coms desk; drawing more attention than he’d have liked. “Weems, get me Senator Mothma,” Draven kept his voice low.

“She’s in a private meeting, Sir. With Senator Organa.”

“...Of course she is.”

The only way around Merrick, his pilots, and High Command, was to go to Mon herself. And he’d have to sort this face to face, it seemed.

After downing a hot caff in the common area, then pouring a second out of procrastination, Draven made swiftly for the exit.

****

******** **

At the rear of the main conference area in the upper levels of the temple, he found them in hushed conversation.

Draven crossed the room promptly; his footsteps drew Mon Mothma’s gaze.

She halted mid sentence. Her lips pursed tight and shoulders stiffened with tenseness, as if she were bracing herself for physical impact rather than the verbal sort. Draven was always sure to bring some form of mildly enraging conversation; whether it be news of things gone wrong, dead ends from the Intelligence Division, or his plain insufferable pettiness. And at this point, Mon was conditioned to react in such an uptight manor every time Draven entered the vicinity.

“General Draven. This could not have waited?” Her tone was unwavering as she gestured toward Bail at her side, and their halted conversation.

“Should we continue this later?” Bail pressed, concern in his eyes as they flitted to Draven, then back to Mon.

Draven felt his stomach sink low, regretting interrupting. He hadn’t considered the rarity that was Bail’s presence here… If he forced Organa to postpone, it meant facing Mon’s silent wrath. If Organa stayed, it meant explaining about Merrick in-front of him. This entire situation was pathetic to an enraging level. And now he’d humiliate himself too. _Fantastic._

Draven’s mouth drew taught into a thin line. “No, no. It can wait.” He stuttered, considering an apology but crassly deciding against it.

Mon took a second to exhale through her nose, compose herself before responding. When she did, she ignored Draven. “I think that would be best, Senator Organa. And perhaps elsewhere? This is after all, not the most private of spaces for such conversation.” She smiled. Watched as Bail gave a firm nod, and exited.

As she turned her attention to Draven her smile instantly faded. The sternness in her eyes returned. She was too polite a woman, too used to formality, Draven knew - but if a look could kill, this was absolutely it. Chandrilan curse words spewed from her mere expression.

“I'm Sorry.” Draven said finally. “It’s Andor. He should be back in Intel. We need- What he needs is real guidance, not piloting-”

“This, again?"

There was a moments pause.

“What do you mean, _again_?” Draven frowned.

“General Merrick and Senator Organa and I have our own private conversations too. As a matter of fact, you just interrupted one. …General, you know as well as I this is not a council issue.”

Draven placed his hands on his hips where his jacket folded open lackadaisically. A failed attempt to act casual. He dared not meet Mon’s annoyed gaze with his own.

“Well-” Draven began.

“No-” Mon cut him off. “I will not risk the integrity of my operations being put into question because people have seen _you_ barging in here with minor issues left unresolved. I will not tolerate miss communication over new recruits, or have our ground mission planning and the co-operation between your divisions compromised, all because _you_ wont talk to _him_.”

Head to the ground, Draven squeezed his eyes tight shut in a long blink. Winced in anticipation of Mon’s next words. He could guess what was coming, because it was like this every time. Still, they hit full force.

“Talk to him, Davits.” 

All sternness, all tenseness had dissipated. All that remained was concern, the look of a friend.

An amused smiled curled upon her lips, “For my sake, and for the Rebellions.”

Draven returned her subtle look of softness, albeit reluctantly.

Despite how often they would clash, that’s still what Mon was; a friend. She trusted him more than most and that was reflective of his position within the Rebellion. Mon knew she still needed people of opposing opinions on the council. They had worked together for so long now, there was never any damage between them. Even though Draven was not easy to read, she’d learned his tells. And, she understood. Perhaps Draven should’ve listened well before this moment. Should’ve learned to swallow his pride for once. _But it was never too late? Was it?_

**

“Running _fashionably_ late, as they say!” Merrick exclaimed, maneuvering his way to the front as politely as possible. Swinging his helmet under his arm, he hopped up on to a discarded crate. Used it as a platform.

The crowd before him consisted of newer recruits, Cassian, and a few seasoned veterans who’d followed Merrick from Virujansi to the Rebellion.

“We are gathered here this morning.” Merrick stopped, hesitated. Coughed into his fist as a means to gain everyone’s full attention.

Despite his natural charismatic flair, Merrick was terrible at speeches; or so he claimed. Most of Merrick’s claims similar to this were simply the man being humble and trying to ward off a showering of compliments. …Addressing a lot of new faces at once did overwhelm him, though. All the fruit infused teas in the Galaxy could not calm Merrick’s nerves and stop his hands from shaking during the first few lines. But past that? He was far from terrible.

“…This information is not from High Command. It comes straight from me. Straight from my heart. I want you to know that I not only support you, but I admire you. And I hope you'll forgive me if I struggle to explain why. But please keep in mind that I still consider myself a pilot more than a commanding officer. And I am not one for speeches either… Before I joined the Rebel Alliance, when I was the flight leader of the Rarified Air Cavalry of Virujansi, I became familiar with more than a few hotshot pilots. You know the type. I don't doubt you even count them among your friends and allies, as I do. They not only get their job done, but they can be excellent company… Still even the best of them.. Sorry, like I said. Not one for speeches.”

When writing this, Merrick had wished for Draven’s blunt editing skills. Instead, he’d had to settle for Colonel Cor’s advice, which was always too harsh and inhuman at times. More-so than Draven. _Draven_. Why did he wish Draven was here? Merrick was briefly reminded of the medal ceremony; how he’d searched so desperately then too. Even knowing he shouldn’t, knowing he should move on, he couldn’t. The only thing that grounded Merrick in this moment was Cassian. The boy stared at him expectantly, waiting. His eyes were dark, glittery with inspiration as if he knew what Merrick was going to say, why he had chosen to say it. R3-M2 was perched at his side, and the pair had bonded so naturally the droid was just as much Cassians. The sight was perfect, and Merrick smiled through his words here after.

“Oh, the hotshots. Too many enjoy basking in the glory of their skills, their daring manoeuvres, and their kills. Over the past week, I have invested much of my time overseeing pilots training to fly X-Wings. Like you, they come from all parts of the galaxy. Unlike you they've demanded my attention in ways that I didn't anticipate. As U-Wing pilots you're different. You're not concerned with how many TIE fighters you shoot down, how fast you shoot them. Your concern, as you ferry infantry to and from the battle zones, is keeping you passengers alive.”

Cassian glanced over his shoulders, new surprise etched in his expression as he realised… Being shorter than most, it was much harder for Cassian to get a discreet look at his company - but everyone here was a U-Wing pilot, himself included. If not yet, they were likely about to become one. A lot were his own recruits, from Fest and elsewhere. It was both humbling and daunting to Cassian. _He did this._

"I say we let the hotshots have their moment. Because when I assigned you to fly U-Wings, I didn't choose you because you're hotshots. I chose you because you're _better_ than that!"

All present gave joyous applause for Merrick, but also for each other, and Cassian.

After Merrick dismissed them, everyone dispersed; some back to their ships, and others to retrieved their new ones. Cassian, too, felt invigorated and returned enthusiastically to his U-Wing.

When Cassian first arrived on Yavin IV with the U-Wings, Merrick made note of how well he’d handled them. Merrick hadn’t hesitated to officially assign Cassian to the ship, and to Blue Squadron. Even though Merrick had all the authority to take it, give it to any other pilot, he hadn’t. The rest of Blue Squadron’s U-Wing’s were piloted by Virujansi veterans; personal friends of Merrick’s who were much older and more experienced than Cassian could ever hope to be. These ships obviously meant a great deal to the Rebellion, but also to Merrick personally - to the point he’d deemed a welcome speech necessary. Cassian realised Merrick cared sincerely with all his heart for everything he could muster the energy to care for, to fight for. And that included Cassian. In the Galaxy’s dark times, this was a rare quality to find in a person; a hard truth Cassian had the unfortunate pleasure of learning from experience.

He’d learned too much too young. But even if he could, Cassian wouldn’t change his past. It made him who he was. All of this had been possible because of Bail Organa, and also because of himself. That speech was a _‘thank you’_ to Cassian, as well as a formal welcome, yet it only made him eager to leave Blue Squadron sooner…

Basic flight training was mandatory and whilst he was almost done with that he was learning Barion Raner's revised and improved training methods - which he’d been using of his own choosing. He still had to read those books Merrick had given him too. But today reminded of the good Cassian could do on a larger scale and he found himself craving another mission of the scale only Rebel Intelligence could provide. It was due time he got back to that.

When Cassian climbed aboard his ship he found the last of Merrick’s _‘items’_ he had for him.

On the seat in the cockpit was a helmet. Not the scratched second hand one he’d been borrowing, but a new one. Plain white, except for the blue stripes that match his U-Wing and denoted his Squadron. A note lay beside it; written in that same messy handwriting, and electric blue ink. It simply read: _“Decorate me!”_

**

There it was. That roar of X-Wing engines. Burning fuel. The familiar concoction of harsh scents and sounds that permeated throughout the high ceilings of the main hangar bay. They lingered in Draven’s trail, haunting him, reminding him; Antoc Merrick existed. Old memories of times they’d spared a moment to be together here, shared a cool Alderaanian beer beneath magenta skies of a setting sun. Times they’d enjoyed. …All of it amplified his tenseness as he entered the pilot’s den.

Luckily, Merrick had his back turned and couldn’t see Draven approaching. With his helmet slung under his shoulder he appeared to be giving a speech to a small crowd. Interesting, since High Command had issued nothing of the sort. Draven sighed in mild frustration as he noticed Cassian amidst the group; he was not known for his patience but if he had to wait, then he figured he might as well stick around to listen.

Draven moved closer.

After a few moments, he found he was unable to resist doing so again; itching to hear Merrick’s words ring louder in his ears. He’d so sorely, so embarrassingly missed it. For the first time in weeks Draven set eyes on Merrick. He stifled a curse.

A youthful charisma radiated from Merrick, as was usual - and as was so inexplicably magnetic to everyone whom he engaged. It clashed with Draven’s drilled in secrecy and stickling coldness that’d developed from so long working in the fields he did. Draven was a good liar and although it was something that hadn’t come naturally he almost reveled in his skill. He had the look of one too. There was always a moody judgement to his low, unwavering gaze. Merrick had none of that… His eyes were a steel blue, and his expressions matched their brightness; an almost childlike wonder to them _._ They were true opposites in just about every way he could think. Draven was ice, and Merrick was the sun that’d melt it.

One day, Draven's stubborn determination and his irritating, callous logic would be the death of him; as would Merrick’s undivided benevolence. They’d likely not live to see the end of this war. It was a heavy truth both were aware of. Both of them were hardened fighters, and in their own ways, willing to give all to the Rebellion. Yet beneath their brave and seemingly unencumbered exteriors, they were in-fact burdened with a shared fear. Fear of their truth, and fated future. That if they let themselves grow too close, the war would mercilessly rip one of them from the others arms. A fate neither could bare if it came to fruition. So instead, they had silently agreed to part ways. The war had always been the barrier between them. And they had let the barrier stay down. That was the beginning of their bickering, disagreements and misunderstandings, not just personally but professionally.

The reality was, however, that no matter how much they tried, they’d both become more of a distraction to one another whilst they were apart than when they were together. When they were together it was easy. This was hard, excruciating. No matter how much emotionless thought Draven had tried to justify their split with he could not, _not_ , think about Antoc Merrick, and their relationship fondly, and miss it. It’d been the only bit of warmth he’d experienced in his cold heart for far more than a decade. Draven had always put work first. Always valued it more than the relationships his working decisions had a tendency to tarnish. Previously, it’d paid off. Prevented problems and emotional hurt. But this time it wasn’t working. _Why wasn’t it working?_

Merrick’s delivery was perfect with just the right mix of professionalism and familiarity. The speeches topic did not phase Draven; he’d been too fixated on Merrick. Studied his every gesture, analyzing every word. As if looking for a fault. There was none of course, not to Draven. Merrick was the same, he never changed.

When Merrick finished, he turned and explored the hanger. Caught Draven within a matter of seconds. Merrick put his helmet to one side, leaving it atop a crate the height of his waist. His arms fell to his side. His stare widened, and his movements were painfully cautious.

Draven tried not to race toward him; the taller man’s strides gradually slowed as they drew too close for comfort.

Merrick was dying to speak, break the silence, but was unable. Too confused by Draven’s unexpected presence to even ask why he was here. A lump formed in his throat, prevented him from even breathing sufficiently. Draven spoke immediately. A panicked attempt to avoid awkwardness, and keep the conversation short.

“General, I really- I insist I take your man, Andor, under my wing.” He flung a hand in the direction of an X-Wing. “He’s a good pilot, but he’s not Squadron material… He should be with Intelligence. I know you know that.”

Blunt and straight to the point, Merrick thought. He pursed his lips, felt his body stiffen. Draven was right, but that was not the cause of Merrick’s disappointment. Privately, Merrick had been reminded of their previous closeness, craved it again and wanted Draven to have inquired about something more… Personal. With each word Draven had just spoken, that want faded. Every single thing that came out his mouth was kriffing bantha shit. _Why?_ Why was this the norm.

“Do you. How is that so?” Merrick tested.

“Oh come on.” Draven scoffed.

Draven noted how Merrick’s voice was small, how the shimmer in his eyes dimmed. It was Draven’s own doing, and his heart ached with self loathing.

Merrick noted how Draven’s expression had shifted to one of pathetic self pity, and he sighed in mild frustration. “The boy has experience, talent no doubt. Fabulous solo pilot. But quite right, he was Fest’s _‘Fulcrum,’_ was he not? …Thus, I have no option but to agree. His potential is better suited elsewhere.”

The silence that passed between them felt like years.

Both their gazes had flickered to the ground and about the hangar as they’d avoided each other. Now, they were locked in place. Glaring.

“You were attempting to take Cassian without bothering to mention that rather monumental detail.”

“Maybe so.” Draven ground out, taking a step closer. Cassian himself must have told Merrick, it was the only explanation. Kriff knows why, but in this moment it painted Draven a fool. And his blood boiled with anger. “You weren't going to tell me you lied on the reports.”

“General Davits Draven has a problem with lies?” Merrick laughed. “At least that was out of concern, and not. Not- selfishness!”

“As are mine. Concern for the fate of the Rebellion.”

“...Well, you already got the girl killed, I’m glad to discover you’d truly risk anything.” Merrick snarled. “Risk a _boy_.”

“We’re at war.” Draven snapped. “Everything is a risk.”

“Ah, I didn’t realise!”

“Don’t give me that.”

“Don’t give you what, Dav? A taste of your own pessimistic sarcasm? Or the truth?”

Draven grabbed Merrick by the collar of his flight suit. “Lower. Your Kriffing. Voice.”

They both froze. Eyes burning into each other, furious.

Draven smelled of rich caf, and the damp foliage that lingered in the upper levels of the temple, and Merrick of tea, mid-rim cologne. It really should not have been as attractive as they both found it.

A few pilots from Dreis’ Red Squadron wandered past. They must have missed the memo about Draven and Merrick’s current split, because all three of them wolf whistled.

The pair fumbled away from each other. Merrick’s cheeks burned red as he dusted himself off and Draven yelled at them to kriff off.

Hastily they took their argument outside, away from prying eyes; Draven dragging Merrick by the sleeve of his flight suit. Merrick’s tone didn’t break though, he wasn’t done yet. “If you want _my_ blunt honesty, too, Dav, it’s high kriffing time you fix your general attitude. Not just for my sake. If you’re going to take Cassian, I don’t want-”

“Antoc would you shut up before-”

Both halted.

They’d found a small alcove in the temple’s exterior stone and without thinking, Draven had placed a hand on Merrick’s shoulder. The gesture was a comforting one that he'd often given... Before. Why had he done that. Draven felt ill. What made it all worse was Merrick barely swore. And he’d riled the man to the point he’d abandoned his usual decorum.

In that same, untimely moment, a collection of ship tools and parts clattered to the ground. The sound echoed in the air. Both turned toward it.

Cassian was sat on a crate outside his U-Wing, quietly reading one of his starfighter maintenance manuals. R3-M2 who was working on his ship was the one to knock over a box. For some reason, Cassian was wearing his helmet. Upon noticing Draven and Merrick staring blankly at him, he took it off awkwardly. Scratched at the back of his neck, ruffled his hair.

Draven didn’t have time to process the sight in its entirety, but he loathed it. The way _his_ best agent was just sitting there as if he were Merrick’s spoiled child - as if he were a natural part of Blue Squadron, raised on sickly sweet Virujansi tea. Merrick had probably had about a dozen teas with him, and Cassian had probably enjoyed it… He loathed that too.

Pushing Draven’s hand from his shoulder and pulling away from his light touch, Merrick composed himself. Straightened his stance before he spoke. His voice was low so that Cassian would not hear, and he was careful with his tone; there was almost a delicacy to it. “I think Cassian has, and will do splendidly in the Intelligence Division.”

Merrick was a man so often adorned with a bright grin that it was jarring to see him without such positivity seeping through his veins. Without further words, he looked upon Draven’s rank badge with disdain, and as he turned away he still would not give Draven that smile. Then, he was gone.

That look, Draven’s dedication to his position - it was what had always, what still came between he and absolutely every other aspect of his life. Between he and Merrick. And he wallowed in regret. 

Alone once more, Draven felt the air around him go cold even amidst Yavin IV’s persistent humidity; his world was again, dim. 

Perhaps Draven _was_ long past caring what most thought of him... But to a very select few, that sentiment no longer applied.

_**_


End file.
